Myself Would Be His Wife
by Freud-Plato-SisterMonicaJoan
Summary: A modern/historical AU of Call The Midwife placed in the year ca.1998. Computers, Goths and the Maternal Clinic of Illyria Hospital, where the IT Support Person/Receptionist Shelagh Mannion listens to the woes of Doctor Turner, the Senior Doctor. Based loosely on Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1. Of smoking and men**

A lunch hour at the cafeteria of the Illyria Hospital was drawing to a close. There were only a few groups of people there, finishing their meal.

Patrick rose up. "Shelagh, I am going… to the thing. Care to join me?"

Julie looked at the nurses around the table. Evie's eyes narrowed dangerously, Trixie's mouth turned upwards, and Cynthia smiled, too. Only the part-time receptionist Monica, the resident eccentric of the Maternity Clinic focused on her dessert, meringue and raspberry jam.

Shelagh didn't say anything. She usually preferred not be the center of attention.

Julie asked somewhat sternly: "The thing, Patrick? Do not tell me that…? You are not again going out to the yard to smoke with Shelagh?"

Doctor Patrick Turner shook his head, trying to give at least an outward appearance of authority - he was the Senior Doctor of the Clinic. But it was not easy with Julie, the Matron, who was really in charge of the Clinic with her graceful presence and an iron fist in a silk glove.

"Julie, we don't smoke. We consume medicinal nicotine."

All smoking had recently been banned at the hospital. Although Julie believed that Patrick had been able to quit smoking, she felt that he could sometimes fall off the wagon.

"I am going to show Shelagh the autoclave in the Museum Room," Patrick said. "She said she has never seen a right old autoclave."

There indeed was a Museum Room in this hospital, filled with old medical equipment. Doctor Turner was very interested in the history of medicine, and Shelagh was known to be a bit of science nerd.

He was beckoning Shelagh to come with him, and raising his upper lip a little impatiently. Shelagh rose and left with him, giving the others an apologetic smile.

Evie watched them leave and then turned to Julie. "He's…much taken with Shelagh. It is a bit odd."

Julie made a tut-tut noise. "I think he may need a surrogate for Timothy. Not more than that. Perhaps."

Timothy was Patrick's son who had moved out a few years ago. The company kept an uneasy silence at the mention of him. There had been some estrangement between the father and the son lately when Tim had dropped his medical studies.

"Well, I don't think Tim and Shelagh are so similar, even though both wear that awfully dramatic black. Has anyone heard from Timothy?" Evie inquired.

"I received an email from him," said Trixie. "He's doing OK."

After a moment, she continued in an amused manner: "Shelagh and the Doc do look an uneven pair, one might say. Our dear old stuffy Doc and a Goth girl. I think she is in fact quite good-looking under that black-and-white makeup. Her face has a wonderful shape."

"Don't you dare call our Doc stuffy, Trixie," Cynthia insisted. "He may not be the best dresser in the world, but he's a great doctor and it is really interesting to listen to him. A great diagnostician." Cynthia smirked a little. "Of course, there was that case when he was wearing striped red-and-green socks, and this very proper patient noticed it-"

After the laughter died down, Cynthia added: "I think it is good that Doctor Turner has some drive in him again, after the unfortunate events in his life."

"I wonder if Shelagh finds him interesting to….talk with," Evie mused. Her eyes were merry, even if her mouth winced ironically. "He is a man, after all. He's living alone after Marianne died, and Timothy…left."

"Yes, he is a man," Julie conceded, with a sigh. "And Shelagh is a woman 15 years younger than him. You are right about her face, Trixie. She has a great body, too. I have seen her in floral dresses. It is a pity. But the burdens of her youth must be expressed in some manner, I suppose. A disguise for bruised feeling, all that black."

"Oh, Shelagh in a floral dress. I'd like to see that," Trixie enthused.

Everyone knew that Julie had a special relationship with Shelagh, Miss Mannion, once a nursing student, then a receptionist, and now the IT support person. No-one really knew why Shelagh had dropped out of nursing school, except Julie.

Shelagh's Goth enthusiasm was perhaps not tolerated in professional settings. People didn't wish to see a vampire nurse drawing their blood. Julie had assured the staff that Shelagh had been an excellent student and could in medical emergencies act as a nurse assistant. In addition, her computer skills and teaching others how to use the new computerized appointment system were beyond reproach. She really was the best applicant to the receptionist's post. She had shown her interpersonal skills with Monica, sharing her coconut cake enthusiasm and astrological charts with such a flair in her first week that everyone was impressed. So who cared for how she dressed?

Neither did Doctor Turner anymore, it seems, Julie meditated, resignedly. Timothy had also had a Goth phase, but he had moved on to black leather without makeup.

"I rather thought that our Doc gave the glad eye to another woman last week," Evie revealed, with some relish.

Cynthia and Trixie laughed at the expression she used. "Really, Evie, _gave the glad ey_ e, how quaint." But the girls were interested. "Who's this remarkable woman? This is news, indeed."

"Our new Doctor who arrives next month. Patsy Mount. She's very handsome. "

Julie interrupted the gossip. "Yes, she comes with a very good CV. She has a lot of experience. Moreover, Nurse Phyllis Crane will arrive next month, too. I think Doctor Mount and Nurse Crane will share a flat. It is great that we succeeded to get both of them."

"Share a flat? Does that mean…?" Trixie asked with some intention.

"I don't know and I don't care, Trixie."Julie was emphatic. "I think it is a very expensive flat. You should remember our motto, we are not here to judge-"

A chorus of nurses replied, with giggles: " _Cure sometimes, treat often, comfort always. Never judg_ e."

Julie laughed. "Yes, that's the good old stuffy Doctor Turner motto for you, ladies."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2. The roots of Goth culture.**

"Goth culture has its roots in in the Victorian cult of mourning," Shelagh explained calmly to Patrick.

They were on the 8th floor of the hospital on a balcony which gave a wonderful view over the roofs of East London.

She was chewing nicotine gum. Patrick was using his latest medical gadget, a nicotine inhaler.

Her answer was a short one to one question in a long and rambling rant by Patrick. He had asked her of the Goth culture and its finesses. She didn't really know if he asked because of Timothy or - if he wanted to hear about her. He had expressed his dismay over his son: why did Timothy prefer expensive black leather suits and his new job to medical studies? Tim had dropped out of the studies, Shelagh knew that, but she was fairly sure he might one day pick them up again.

There was a sorrow behind the talkative Doctor Turner facade. That is why she tried to be gentle and not too specific.

"Yes. Timothy may have preached about the finer aspects of Goth-ism to me with youthful vigor once or twice. I may not have listened to him carefully enough." Patrick paused. "I did consider Tim's Goth phase a reaction to his mother's death. But at the time, I thought it harmless and temporary. What has happened since worries me more. I know he gets well paid for all those Event Manager gigs. Yet I feel there's been a some kind of unraveling of him. It is only two years since his mother died and to me, he seems on uneven track. All this…cosplay seems so childish."

Shelagh knew that Timothy loved his new job: he was in charge of rock concerts, Doctor Who conventions and yes, some cosplay events as well. The wages made him independent of his father and he enjoyed the creative aspect of the job. Patrick's attitude to his son's endeavors must have something to do with this new independence and Tim's having some fun along with it. It seemed a little out of date for Patrick not to accept this rather ordinary growing-up process. He was so impossible and old-fashioned sometimes. And sweet.

Or so Shelagh thought. She made a mental gesture to shake off these feelings. This was starting to get dangerous.

Patrick could also act like a small boy. He had shown her the autoclave, but it seemed that the main reason for him dragging her away from the lunch table to the Museum Room was to show her the nicotine inhaler, his new toy, and the balcony up there which she had not seen before. "It is a sight to see, isn't it? I love London rooftops."

Shelagh agreed. It was a magnificent view.

They had bonded over chewing nicotine gum. When Patrick had found out that she was struggling with non-smoking rules, too, he had suggested that she join him out in the hospital inner yard for chewing nicotine gum. "It is good to keep something old when you change a habit. Even if we don't smoke, it is good to go out to have the replacement nicotine where we used to smoke, and for some company."

When she had arrived at the Clinic, Shelagh had felt that he was at first a bit wary of her because of her Goth looks, but they were pals now.

Now he had shown her something better than that shadowy yard. Shelagh wondered if he was trying to show his trust in her by doing this.

"' _This is the air; that is the glorious sun'",_ Patrick recited in a dramatic voice.

"Twelfth Night, Sebastian."

Patrick was astonished. "You know the play? It's my old favourite."

After a moment he continued: " _'You are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite.'_ That is what Marianne used to say to me when I kept on whining or theorizing for too long."

Shelagh's face turned into a grin. Patrick responded with a self-sardonic smile: "Yes, you are free to laugh at me, I don't mind at all."

"She seems to have been a wise lady," Shelagh said in a neutral tone. She also thought that Marianne had had a fairly right view on her husband, who was inclined to talk a lot. About science. About medical progress. About the annoying hospital bureaucracy. About himself.

But never before had Shelagh heard him talk of Marianne so openly.

"She used to come and sit here to look at the view, and Tim used to play here. They came to see me when I was a resident on call. That way I didn't lose all Tim's childhood by being a workaholic young doctor."

"I guess Tim was a wonderfully funny child."

He harrumphed. "He was a regular riot. But a lovable creature…". He let his head hang.

There is definitely an element of…..something in this balcony visit, Shelagh felt. Out loud she said: "I am sure things will turn alright. With Tim. I think he will catch up with medicine again."

"I hope so, Shelagh. I hope so." He lifted his head up and considered her for a while. "So, what are your Victorian roots of mourning? What made you a Goth?" Even if the words were playful, his manner was sincere.

Shelagh turned her face away and kept her gaze at the rooftops.

He retreated politely. "I beg your pardon. I see _'the melancholy god protect thee'_."He looked at his watch. "My one o'clock is waiting. Have to leave. See you." Then he was gone.

Shelagh turned back to see the empty room after he had left. " _'But when in other habits I am seen, whose mistress and queen will I be?'_ " she muttered to herself. The old heartache had come back.

XXX

The quotes are from _Twelfth Night_ by Shakespeare.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3. Vicars, Tarts, A Few Policemen and Spinsters**

There was a joyful party going on at the Illyria Nurses' Residence large living room. It was a farewell party and a kind of bridal shower for Chummy Fortescue by her friends. She was leaving for another job, and she was going to be married, too, to Constable Peter Noakes. As the date was the 28th December, the party doubled this year as a New Year's Party.

Chummy had been consulted if she minded if they arranged the traditional costume party the Illyrians usually held on New Year's Eve. The costume code for it was Vicars and Tarts. Chummy didn't mind, she had cheerfully accepted the suggestion.

In the course of the evening, this required costume code was becoming a little awkward. Some of Peter's friends had come straight from duty in their uniforms, so it started to look like a mixture of the church, law and order and bunny girls. Some nurses arrived to the party after their late shifts in their nurse uniforms.

Moreover, Chummy had invited with her usual knack for accidents a real-life Vicar Tom Hereward to the party. He was going to be the man to wed them, and besides, he was Trixie's boyfriend. So there were humorous encounters, when new people asked confused questions about who might be a real Vicar or a real policeman. It created a riot when someone started to demand that the real tarts should also announce themselves.

But it was a happy chaos. There was a noisy game of Trivial Pursuit going on around the table in the living room. Chummy and Peter were one team, the Tarts the second team, the Vicars the third team (led by the benevolent Tom) and Policemen and Nurses the fourth team.

The kitchen, however, served as an asylum for those not inclined to take part in the game. Patrick and Shelagh sat there drinking wine, and making conversation of their own. Every now and then someone visited the kitchen to fetch more beer or snacks from the fridge.

Both of them had also resisted the costume challenge. Patrick was dressed in jeans and a black pullover, and Shelagh in her customary black Goth lace, leather and satin.

Shelagh knew that Tim had visited his father only briefly for Christmas, and that he had left for his gigs straight away on the Boxing Day. The visit must have been at least somewhat successful, as Patrick didn't seem to sulk. His mood seemed light, and he commented some of the Trivial Pursuit questions heard even in the kitchen with good humour.

"What are the best known Robert De Niro movies? Come on, Mannion. I will sa _y The Raging Bull._ "

" _Taxi Driver_."

"I will say _New York, New York_."

"And me _Falling In Love_."

Patrick furrowed his brow and took a sip of wine. " _Falling In Love_? What is that? I haven't seen it."

"It's a remake of _Brief Encounter_. With Meryl Streep. De Niro is fantastic in that movie."

"I really can't believe you can make a good remake of _Brief Encounter_ …" Patrick was suspicious.

"It is really not that bad. It takes place in New York."

"But it can't have the charm of the original. Has it that famous line: _Please let me help, I am a Doctor_?"

Shelagh laughed. "No. But the great actors save much of the plot. There is a real tension of…unsaid feelings in it. And if you start with this no remakes business, no new James Bond movie can exist."

Patrick chuckled. "Oh, but Bond is different. Bond is a franchise." He looked at Shelagh whimsically: "I've been told that I look a little bit like that one Bond from the 1980s, Timothy Dalton."

Shelagh snorted wine out of her nose at this remark. Patrick laughed at her:" Hey, it is not that improbable. I am dark, with a craggy face, and I am not that old. I am really seven years younger than Dalton, although I don't look like it."

Shelagh gazed at him with some glee: "Oh yes, when one looks at you close enough, there is some resemblance. The name is Turner, Patrick Turner. Licensed to heal."

He shared her mirth. "And a special agent Shelagh Manniova, a cyber spy who can kill the world with her computer." They cackled for a moment at this. Then Patrick dried his eyes and said: "Tim has in fact tried to educate me in the Bond franchise. He says it is time for me to move on to Pierce Brosnan movies."

"So you still watch the Roger Moore ones?"

Patrick grinned a bit self-consciously. "No. I watch Sean Connery. Yes, I am a traditionalist. Don't laugh."

"I wasn't going to," Shelagh said evenly and poured them another glass of wine.

Patrick listened to the voices in the living room. "Oh. Now they play this game of having to choose one from three. A forced choice game. I used to play these word games with Tim. It is a little bit like the Prisoners Dilemma. Do you know what is the Prisoner's Dilemma?"

Oh, Shelagh knew that well enough. To talk, to reveal, and to destroy yourself by revealing.

"So, I will give you a choice of three. You must choose one. Are you ready?" Patrick asked.

"I am."

"Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth, Timothy Dalton."

Shelagh sniggered. "I can hardly lose with these. Dalton."

His face melted into a funny smile. "That is so nice of you."

"My turn," Shelagh said. "Jodie Foster, Madonna, Sophie Ward."

"Sophie Ward. She has a remarkable face." He grew slightly uncomfortable. "And she's the only - straight one in that lot."

"No, she isn't. Of course we really don't know about Jodie Foster. But Sophie Ward is now in a relationship with a woman. After her divorce."

Patrick whistled. "I didn't know that. Interesting. Such a beautiful woman, and she has two children, hasn't she?"

"Yes." Shelagh was staring at her drink.

Patrick moved a bit closer to her. His voice was a bit concerned: "Shelagh, you know you can tell me if….?"

Shelagh looked at him with chagrin. So he thought she was gay.

He withdrew instantly. "Sorry, not my place to ask."

"No, I am glad you brought the subject up. I am heterosexual. Very straight. Not perhaps apple-pie-pink-bras kind of straight. But straight."

He examined her for a moment. "That's OK. I mean, I am straight, too." She let out a stifled laugh. This was comical. He started to guffaw. "In case you wondered." They seemed not to be able to stop laughing.

A lady in a very expensive-looking green two-piece suit emerged at the doorstep. She had honey-coloured hair stretched into an elaborate bun on her head, and very red lips and fingernails. "I am sorry to disturb you. I was told there might be wine or beer here in the kitchen- - Oh, it's you, Doctor Turner."

Patrick rose and offered his hand to the woman. "I am Patrick. Nice to see you again, Doctor Mount."

"I am Patsy. It's nice to see you, too. This is a bit odd way to be introduced to your new colleagues. I didn't get the message about the dress code for the party." She considered Shelagh: "Oh, you decided to come as a Goth? I thought it was Vicars and Tarts only, and policemen."

Amused, Patrick put his hand on his mouth, and Shelagh raised her eyebrows and forced a smile. "No, I like to dress in black. In Goth black. Not Tart Black or Vicar Black." She greeted Patsy. "I am Shelagh Mannion, the IT Support Person and part-time receptionist. Delighted to meet you, Doctor. "

Patsy gave her an appreciative look. "You look good in black, Miss Mannion."

"I am Shelagh to everyone here. Except to some of the IT bosses. They prefer Miss Mannion. I prefer Miss Mannion when I am with them."

"Shelagh is our most excellent defense line in the world of computers. She fights for sensible health care," Patrick said proudly.

There was laughter. Shelagh withdrew a little in her mind. That is how Patrick saw her: the mother's-little-helper, the good comrade Shelagh.

Wine was offered to Patsy and she sat down by them. Shelagh followed the small talk Patrick and Patsy engaged in with wary eyes. Patrick seemed oddly elated, like he hadn't seen a beautiful, made-up fair woman in high heels ever before. That flashy, lopsided smile of his was in fact quite charming. Shelagh felt bleak.

 _'Even so quickly may one catch the plague?'_

Patsy was friendly and nice, she had to admit. The talk moved to medicine quite soon, and Patrick was in his element, introducing Patsy to all the aspects of ante-natal, post-natal and gynecological care the Clinic offered.

Shelagh excused herself and went to the living room. There she was approached by yet another stranger, a woman in her fifties. "Are you Shelagh Mannion? My name is Phyllis Crane, Nurse Crane. Nice to meet you."

"You can call me Shelagh."

"And you can call me Phyllis." The woman had cropped hair and a manner that screamed "spinster" from 1000 miles away. She seemed a very interesting and capable woman, though. "Why do I think so….rigidly?" Shelagh mused. In fact, you could call Doctor Mount a spinster too, even though she must be only in her early thirties.

' _The spinsters and the knitters in the sun'_. We keep the world going, she concluded, with some melancholy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4. Emails and search engines and poor Viola**

 _This chapter tries to capture the early days of Internet: how emailing, browsing and searching the Internet worked at that time. The unbearable slowness of pages loading, and people resisting electronic communication. It was like that in the 1990s._

One evening Shelagh was working late at the Clinic reception area. The hall to the offices of Doctors was dimly lit, and only a few doors were still ajar to the hall, giving light.

Patrick appeared from his office, and seeing Shelagh he walked to her desk. "Could I ask for some help, Shelagh?"

"Yes?"

He was a bit nervous and embarrassed. "Could you come to my office and teach me how to use email?"

Shelagh gave him an ironic look. Patrick had been resistant to using email. He said he was of old school: phones, post-it notes, faxes and letters were enough for him. He had started to show interest in the Internet when Patsy had shown him some professional discussion groups for researchers.

"Errmm….Patsy has tried to convert me to using email and now that I have seen some things you can do with it, I feel it could be a wonderful way of….keeping contact." He was blushing slightly.

Shelagh felt a bitter sting of jealousy. She had been talking about the virtues of emailing, discussion groups and electronic archives for so long. Then Patsy succeeded in getting the message through with her charm in a minute.

"Well, I should perhaps confess that it is a personal message I'd like to send," he babbled. "Patsy and I were arguing about a song based on a Shakespeare text the other day. You heard us at the cafeteria, didn't you? I'd like to check the text and send the lyrics to her. There are Shakespeare texts on the Internet, aren't there? I think you said that copyright free works can be published on Internet."

"Take a chair and sit down, I will show you. We can open your mail account on my computer."

He sat down beside her. "Thanks, Shelagh. This may be interesting to you as well: it is a song by Joseph Haydn based on _Twelfth Night_. Viola's words to Orsino. Do you think we could find it with one of those…what do you call them….browsers?"

"Not browsers, search engines. It must be the song _"She never told her love."_ I will put the first words here in a search window….."

Patrick leaned in closer as she wrote the words. "Interesting. What do you do next? What is that key you always use, as a command, and must be wary of not using wrong?"

"Enter. Now the search is running….it may take some time."

Patrick watched Shelagh. "You really are smart with technology. "

"OK, Altavista didn't get it. Let's try Yahoo." Some minutes passed by. She could feel his presence behind her, waiting, his long legs stretched in front of him, his hands behind his head.

"Do you know this song?" he inquired.

"I have studied singing. I sing in a church choir. A choir specialized in Gregorian chants."

"Really?" Patrick was amazed. "How do you feel about combining that to Goth rock? I mean, I sometimes hear _The Sisters of Mercy_ you play here." He grinned. "When you think you are alone here early in the morning or late in the evening."

Shelagh shook her head. "Not a big problem for me. Worlds can always meet if there is a will." She paused a little. "I also like the choir robes. The white robes we have for performance."

He chuckled. "I have a hard time believing you could dress in white. Except lab white or nursing white, of course."

His closeness started to make her dizzy. "White is just an absence of colour. Just as black is."

"Well, that is one way of seeing it. A deep thought." He glanced her, puzzled. "You are a deep girl, aren't you?"

"Deepness is not something I consider an achievement. More a result of the crosses in life. The twitches of fate I could gladly have done without…..Aha. There is a discussion group in Geocities where a singer has posted the lyrics."

She rolled back and let him read the screen. His lips moved and his face was beaming with pleasure when he muttered aloud the text:

 _She never told her love,_

 _But let concealment, like a worm in the bud,_

 _Feed on her damask cheek_

 _She sat, like Patience on a monument,_

 _Smiling at grief._

"Yes, that's the lyrics."

Shelagh moved back to the computer to make a search for the entire play of _Twelfth Night._

As they waited for the results, he asked, wistfully: "Do you think that could happen in real life? That a man can go loving as deeply as Viola and never express it?"

"Can't really say. A blank page, Viola said. But it was her imagination and her fears of future that made her invent that story. Yes, maybe it could happen to a man. Or a woman."

He looked at her with compassion. "After your…twitches of fate, do you think…"He stopped. "Sorry. I was going to ask if you have ever had an unhappy love affair. Stupid of me."

Shelagh kept her counsel. This was beginning to be unbearable. Fortunately, the search ended. He again read the screen. "I think I was right and Patsy was wrong. The Shakespeare text is longer. But I let her respond to that. Can you copy that, too?"

Shelagh turned to the screen: "Now I open your email here – you must write the password yourself." She rolled her chair backwards to give him space to do that. " Now I copy this - see how it is done- and paste it to your post."

"What next?" he asked. "Is it now time to click that icon that says _Send_? "

"Yes."

He sent the email and turned to look Shelagh smiling widely. "Amazing. Thank you Shelagh. I am sure Patsy will appreciate this".

He was again in his dreamy world of honey-coloured buns of hair and flashy smiles. Shelagh felt she had been outmaneuvered, by herself, of all people.

Yet she decided that something good must become out of this odd session.

She wrote down a line. An email address. "Patrick, this is important. You should write to him. To Timothy. This is his email address. I think it would be…appropriate."

Patrick stared at the address. DoctorTimothy. . "Oh, he calls himself a Doctor now. After Doctor Who or….?"

He furrowed his brow."How did you get this address? Ah. You don't want to say…. He's been emailing to people here, I guess. Perhaps I should indeed write to him."

He rose. "By the way, do you know the chant _O Come O Come Emmanuelle_? It is a chant Marianne and I loved. And Timothy as well, before this rock music business swallowed him."

"Yes. I know _O Come O Come Emmanuelle._ " She sang the opening verses.

He stared at her, astonished. "What an excellent voice you have." Then he left.

XXXXX

When she was certain she was alone, Shelagh put her head into her palms. She must remember the good things. He will write to Timothy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5. Bethro'd to a man and a maid.**

"Oh Shlegah, thank you for the wonderful email. I love that song, those lyrics. I had a bit of disagreement with Doctor T about it: if it is straight out of Shakespeare, or modified. You heard us having an argument about it the other day, didn't you?"

Patsy was ebullient and friendly. A little too friendly. Shelagh was perplexed.

"Patsy, I haven't sent you any lyrics. At least I think I haven't. "

"Well, it was sent from the Maternal Clinic email address. It is the official address, but I naturally thought the post was from you. After all, you are in charge of that address, aren't you?"

What had happened with that email? Shelagh had been so sure that it was Patrick's personal email account they used. She must have been so….distracted that she had copy-pasted the text to her own account, which had unfortunately also been open on that screen. A most unhappy incident. The elated chump, the fool Patrick was, he had in his eagerness forgotten to sign the post.

Shelagh said haltingly: "Patsy, I am glad that you liked the lyrics. It is true that I found the lyrics on the Web. It was Patrick…Doctor Turner who wished to post them to you. But he must have used my account by accident. I have advised him badly in this noble art of emailing. I thought I copy-pasted it to his account."

A confused smile spread on Patsy's face. "Ahah. OK. Well, anyway, I am glad I got the lyrics. And if the post wasn't from you…that is kind of sad, but a relief, too."

Shelagh was beginning to have a clue of what she was talking about.

"You are not gay, are you, Shelagh?"

Shelagh shook her head.

"But I am. I hope I can trust you to keep that information to yourself for a while. I thought you might be wishing to… get to know me better by sending that post. I like you, you are a wonderful person, but I am already taken. Committed to a relationship. Or so I thought…"

Patsy's eyes filled with tears. Shelagh pulled out a chair for her and asked her to sit down.

"Thank you. You see, I have a girlfriend in Durham. She's a nurse. Delia. I thought she was willing to follow me to London, but she decided to stay there. She has had some health problems, and we really had quite awful disagreements the last months. So I had to move alone. I am of course happy that Phyllis was willing to flat-share with me. Phyllis is really a true friend. Perhaps I should say that she's not gay. Last week I heard that Delia has moved in with a group of students, one of which happens to be Timothy Turner."

Shelagh was taken aback.

"Yes, exactly, Shelagh. I didn't know about that earlier. I have learned that he's Doctor Turner's, I mean Patrick's only son. So the situation is a bit tricky. "

Shelagh gave Patsy a handkerchief. "Thank you, Shelagh. You really are a most comfortable person to talk with. Many people must have said so, haven't they?"

Yes, too many, Shelagh thought a bit grimly. Not that she wasn't sympathetic to Patsy's worries. This was a right old state of confusion even by Shakespearian measures-

"But Patsy, I am sure things could turn out well. You haven't really broken up with Delia. She hasn't…dumped you, has she?"

"No. She says the same as you, that this is temporary, and in the end we will be together, but at the moment she feels that she has to continue her university studies there. She has epilepsy, and the prognosis is not clear yet. She might not be able to work as a Nurse anymore." Patsy blew her nose and watched Shelagh." Do you know Timothy Turner? Didn't he have a kind of row with his father?"

"Yes, I know Tim. He's a nice lad. He seems to be going through a…phase. Or he may have found his calling as an Event Manager. It does not please his Dad, who was expecting him to graduate in medicine."

"That's what I have heard. From the cafeteria small talk here, and from Delia. We still talk regularly, although we have had to make a pact to not speak of our….differences of opinion."

The conversation came to a lull. Shelagh's mind was again on Patrick. She was burning with this knowledge of Patsy being gay, and her heart ached when she thought of how….disappointed he might be by this information. At the same time, a strange joyful flow of new hope was running in her veins. Surely she could live with this news and keep silent? Could she? Would she? Did she have any choice?

Oh to be everyone's confidante. She knew she had a special gift in that. Even Mrs. Monica liked to talk with her about her dull upper class youth and her cruel mother. But the circumstances were becoming a little too much for her. She was in contact with Tim, and saw it as her mission to keep the father and son connected. It was too complicated. Tim living with a woman - even if only as flat-mate- a woman who was the girlfriend of the woman Tim's father seemed very much interested in. A gay woman. Patsy was really a great catch for the Maternal Clinic professionally, and she seemed a very fascinating person. Her private life was her own business, as everyone else's.

Shelagh felt her head was whirling.

"You grew quiet, Shelagh. Is something of the matter?" Patsy asked, concerned.

"No. I am all right. I just thought….it is a tricky situation, as you said. "

Patsy patted her hand. "Yes, but I have full trust in you to keep things on even keel." Then she got a bit self-conscious. The penny seemed finally to drop. "Oh, you said it was Patrick's idea to send that piece of Shakespeare to me." She pondered this for some seconds. Shelagh also mused how hard it must be to be a beautiful, gay woman in a man's world. What a pickle.

Patsy rose and smiled apologetically to Shelagh: "Well, I think his interest in Shakespeare lyrics and me cannot be anything serious, can they? He will get the message in due time, with little harm done. Thank you, Shelagh. It was lovely to talk with you."

Shelagh was left with her conflicting worlds.

" _O time! thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me to untie_ , "she muttered to herself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6. Still so constant or cruel.**

Babies were born. Women received the best care the Clinic could offer. There were some winds of change: emails seemed to gain a new popularity at the Clinic, and Patsy and Phyllis had become trusted and useful colleagues. Moreover, Patsy and Patrick were in the midst of a new research project. It was about kangaroo care of fragile new-borns.

Smoking was still banned and Patrick still invited Shelagh to share medicinal nicotine with him. Or biscuits.

He had insisted that it was time to move on to digest something else than nicotine as the next move in the fight to quit smoking. So biscuits it was, and word games. After the party in December he had engaged Shelagh in associative word games. He said it was based on "cognitive psychological procedures, creating new habits helping to replace old." Shelagh had an inkling that he needed her to play with him. She was standing-in for Tim.

These meetings didn't however take any more place at the yard. They spent some breaks together in Patrick's or Shelagh's office. This meant more tete-a-tetes than before. Shelagh didn't know if this was by design, or because Patrick was just half-heartedly drifting.

There was something reckless growing in Shelagh. She didn't any more feel so towered by Patsy, but she felt overburdened by the secrets she carried. She started to tackle her own issues with womanhood and feminine graces. It might be that she would never be able to tell Patrick how she felt about him. But if she was losing this fight, she would lose it with all stops out. With flying colours.

She started to plan for completing her nursing studies. She consulted both Julie and Phyllis on that. Something good and productive, something sensible must be born from this chaos she had experienced the last months.

She also started to change her appearance gradually. The first to go were the dark contact lenses. Her own eyes were blue.

Patrick kept studying her with squinted eyes during a biscuit break some two weeks after that. "It took really that long for him to notice?" Shelagh cursed in her mind.

He asked: "What's the matter with your eyes, Shleagh? A touch of conjunctivitis?"

She ignored the staring and started an associative word game. "Let's go with associations, Doc."

"Purcell."

"Haydn."

"Cure".

"Comfort."

"Sorrow."

"Bleakness."

"Treat."

"Heal."

"Argghhh….a momentary blackout. Wait, wait, I haven't lost yet," Shelagh cried. "Forceps."

"Autoclave."

"That's all I can do today. I concede my loss,"Patrick exhaled. He gave her a high-five. Shelagh partly enjoyed, partly deplored these masculine game-over rituals.

He nibbled his biscuit. "I finally see what is wrong with your eyes. They are not pink by conjunctivitis. They are blue."

"Yes, I stopped using dark contact lenses."

"And a very nice blue they are indeed. Enough to get a guy lose an association game. A clever trick. Why did you wear dark contact lenses when you have such fine eyes?"

"For no special reason. Give me a biscuit."

Patrick heaved a sigh. "By some measure, I suspect we should join a Biscuit Eaters Anonymous group."

"Do not lose your mettle. We will conquer this."

XXXX

Another day, another word game.

"Dead Kennedys".

"Division of Joy."

"Beatles."

"Rolling Stones."

"Incubator."

"Iron lung."

"Thatcher."

"Churchill."

"Shepherd's Pie."

"Yorkshire pudding."

Patrick gave up. "Let's stop here." He offered her a biscuit. "What's wrong with your mouth?"

"I have lipstick."

"Yes, indeed you have, but it's not anymore black. It is pink."

"Phyllis suggested a course in colour analysis. We took it together. It seems I am Spring. It means pastel colors. Very few shades of black."

"You took colour analysis with Phyllis? That is baloney. Do you really believe in that kind of humbug? Does she?" he guffawed.

"Well, you noticed the lipstick."

He was a little flustered. "So I did. So I did." He cleared his throat. "Another biscuit, Shelagh?"

XXXX

Finally, she dared to dump the long and large jackets she wore over black satin shirts. She began to wear more stylish jumpers and shirts. She had this new pale blue twin-set she wore over similarly pale blue, tight jeans. Her black hair was still combed back in a high Goth coiffure and she still wore black boots.

One early morning, she was singing some Gregorian chants whilst cleaning in Patrick's office when the man himself entered the room. "I thought I heard Shelagh's voice…" He startled. "Oh it is you. In blue."

Shelagh turned around to face him. She pulled the cardigan closer when she saw Patrick's eyes studying her body outlines.

He gulped. He noticed the empty biscuit case on the desk. "Oh, no biscuits." He sat down, bewildered.

He started to rummage his drawers. "I am sorry Shelagh. I feel I need something stronger today than a biscuit." He found a Nicorette pack, and offered her a gum.

She took it and leaned against the window sill. The morning sun was shining bright out there, it gave shadows and light to her innocent-looking face and its fine features.

He initiated a word game. "So, are you ready for one?"

"Pipettes."

"Test tubes."

"Roses."

"Violets."

"Red."

"Blue."

"Sweet."

"Cute."

"Love."

"Passion."

"Infatuation."

He was suddenly looking at her with such an intensive question in his eyes that Shelagh lost her nerve. She could not find an answer. He rose and came closer. "You lost, Mannion. With….infatuation." A rather lame high-five followed.

He took a deep breath and turned to look at the view. "The sunrise is magnificent, isn't it?" His pager started to vibrate. He took a look at it. "Oh, I have a meeting with Patsy. Forgot it."

He left hurriedly. "Thank you for the game, Shelagh!" he shouted from the hall to her.

 _What relish is in this? how runs the stream?_

 _Or I am mad, or else this is a dream._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7. The unstaid and the skittish.**

One night Patrick and Shelagh were working together late at his office.

Patrick and Patsy were making an application to the Illyria Foundation for an extra research grant for the kangaroo care project. Shelagh had promised to help with the charts and statistics. In the pressure of the deadlines, they had both regressed from biscuits to nicotine gums.

Patrick seemed to think Excel one of the seven wonders in the world when he leafed through the charts and lists Shelagh produced. He had been his loquacious self and talked this and that about the project.

 _"_ _Patsy said this, and with her help"_ ….

 _"_ _Patsy has contacted a number of experts_ " ….

" _Surely the hospital should appreciate Patsy's determination…_ "

Shelagh felt a little tired. Patsy this and Patsy that. Eventually, his torrent of words came to a halt.

After a silence he asked:" Shelagh, can I ask you a question? A sensitive one."

Shelagh's demeanor grew slightly tighter. "Yes, you can."

"Do you think lit likely…how can I word this?"

"Take your time. I am not going anywhere."

"Do you think that…have you ever noticed…about Patsy and Phyllis….I mean, when they are sharing the flat and everything….?"

So he had finally drawn some conclusions. Shelagh felt relieved and nervous at the same time.

"No, I don't think Patsy and Phyllis are lovers. I don't think they ever have been."

Patrick watched her with a mixture of relief and discomfort. "You are such a good person to talk with, Shelagh. Straight to the point." He smiled. "No pun intended."

Shelagh drew a breath. Better to be up to the measure. "But I think Patsy might be lesbian. If that is what you are asking."

It was kind of hard to see hopes crashing in his eyes. He swallowed. "I won't take my words back. It is good that you talk so straight. But…what's the deal then…with Phyllis?"

"I think Phyllis is a flat-mate and a friend. Phyllis is a grand old spinster, as she herself says. As I will be some day."

Patrick looked at her, with dismay. "Phyllis is a great woman. You could be as good a nurse as she, if you decided to move on to nursing. But a spinster? Is that really how you see yourself?"

Although there was some bittersweet pleasure in seeing his disconcert, the topic was too tender. "Yes, I do."She bit her lip. "Isn't it time you take a good look at yourself, Patrick? Face some home truths. Who are you, then? Here you are, a middle-aged man, a father, a widower, sharing nicotine or biscuits with…whom? Your soul mate in quitting smoking?"

That seemed to shake his balance. He gave her a painful look. "Have I somehow…unintentionally, I must say...hurt you?".

Shelagh stood up, took the gum out and put it in the bin. "No, doc. I am all right. I will finish those charts when I am a little less tired. I have to go home. Bye."

 _"_ _Oh, take the lady away! for she's a fool_ " she snapped at herself while running down the staircase. " _I know not what this is, and fear to find."_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8. I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul**

After her speaking out at Patrick, Shelagh speeded up her plans to take a study leave. She needed to get out of here for a while. Julie found her a last-chance placement on a midwifery course for adult students. It was negotiated that she could take that six-month course first and complete her other studies later.

As her last task, she advised Phyllis to use the appointment system and the midwife roster on computer, in case the new stand-in receptionist wasn't up to her job. Mrs. Monica could be trusted with only few duties which required computer use.

So Shelagh sat down with Phyllis one evening and showed her the ropes. The evening proved to be memorable.

Phyllis practiced with the boxes and lists in the appointment application. Her forceful personality seemed to exude warmth and strength even when she was focusing on something she wasn't an expert on. She had been a Rolodex fan, but now she humbly accepted that the old systems were fading away.

She was leering at Shelagh over her spectacles. "So, what's your story, Shelagh? Don't say a blank. I can see that it isn't." Phyllis's voice was mellow even if the words weren't. She seemed genuinely interested.

"Does everyone at this Clinic read Shakespeare?" Shelagh grumbled at her, yet with some glee in her voice.

Shelagh pushed her chair back a little and her face became pinched. "My story is short. I had a family once. I lost it. Then I nearly had a family again. I was pregnant. I had a miscarriage. He dumped me after that."

Phyllis looked a frump – at this moment she was wearing a pair of awful flannel slippers and a granny cardigan. She could be a demanding person to work with. But she was the absolute one to have with you if you were going to have a difficult birth. "Something I might be going through right now," Shelagh mused.

"That's not short nor blank. That is a human experience. A fate. Is it so that you have no parents left?"

"I keep in touch with my Dad. It is not frequent, though. My Mum died when I was 19."

"I figured something like that. All that black from nothing blank comes, methinks. So you have decided to become a spinster?"

"Surely it is not a fate worse than death, is it? You would know," Shelagh blurted out. She regretted it at once. "Oh no, I am my worst enemy." She took Phyllis's hand. "Sorry, Phyllis. I didn't mean it as a punch line. I honestly want to know."

Phyllis considered her with mirth dancing in her eyes. She squeezed her hand. "It is good to get it out of your system every now and when, girl. "

Phyllis turned back to her notes and charts. "It is good to be independent and it is as fine a fate as any. Not so much pain in it, as being coupled, I dare say. Less highs and less lows. A rather satisfying experience once you settle with it. But are you ready to settle with it?"

Shelagh looked down at her boots. They were nice and shiny. Just perhaps a little too….black. Black didn't anymore suit her state of mind.

"I see fine threads in you," Phyllis continued. "You are caring and capable. A great organizer. You seem to fight against your true mettle. Womanhood. _'A soft and tender breeding_ ', yet so strong."

Then she made a gesture of giving up. "But enough of this girly talk for a moment."

Shelagh snorted, amused. This is a fine conversation.

"I have a task for you. It concerns someone a bit….unloved," Phyllis said. "A pregnant woman having birth without a spouse. A gay woman. She needs a doula for her birth. A birth partner. I think you would be perfect for that."

"Me? Do you think so? She doesn't have a partner, or a suitable friend?"

"Unfortunately this Meg Carter has broken up with her partner over this pregnancy. She made an independent decision to get artificial insemination, and it caused their breakup. Her partner Maeve Wells has moved out of their home. Meg is a bit of the old side, 37, so she is in need of support in many ways."

"Is she Patsy's patient?"

"No, Patrick's. I suggested to her that she could still change doctors, especially as the circumstances are what they are, but she is an old patient of Patrick's and she trusts him. But as you see, she is in dire need of female help."

"But I haven't even given birth." This was a sore spot. Phyllis gazed at her gently, with compassionate eyes. "If you are her midwife, is that not enough support? "Shelagh asked.

"Ah, there's the rub. Her due time in in August, and I will be on holiday then. She is on Nurse Franklin's list now." There was a careful concern in Phyllis's voice when she continued: "By that time, you have been in many births. I know how efficient these schooling institutions are. You will have the relevant experience by then."

Phyllis's mouth turned upwards with irony. "My holidays are sacred with me. Some well scheduled spinster delight. A week of square-dancing at a seaside resort, and a week in Spain."

They shared a belly-laugh at that. Shelagh had not felt this safe with anyone for a long time.

"So you think…I am up to it?" Shelagh asked, when they had calmed down.

Phyllis grew serious. "Kid - for kid you are to me – go and meet her. Meg. If you feel a connection with her, take up the task. Nobody forces you." She paused. "It takes only a little courage. By the way, your new blue and pink outfits really suit you. "

Shelagh murmured something unclear as an answer to that.

"We don't choose to be unloved by those who should love us. But you can choose who you can love." Phyllis's voice was sonorous and calm. "And you have chosen, haven't you?"

Shelagh smiled wistfully. Phyllis seemed to intuit quite a lot. Yet she was not ready to share confidences. "OK, I will meet Meg, I promise."

"Good girl." She kept silent for a while. "So, about that life story I so cruelly made you reveal…"

"Oh Phyllis, it was a relief to talk of it. It sometimes is."

"I assume from that life story that you are not in principle against _'leaving a copy of your graces to this world'._ You should consider having children yourself, Shelagh."

Shelagh winced, yet her heart leapt from joy. It was nice that Phyllis could see her as a mother. " _Twelfth Night_. But that was said of Olivia."

"And now I say it to you. Be brave, as Viola. Shame will keep us in all kinds of prisons if we let it."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9. Your master quits you; and for your service done him.**

Shelagh met Meg Carter and they agreed that she would be her doula. Shelagh felt an odd companionship with this clumsy, energetic yet sweet woman. Shelagh was soon a confidante of hers regarding the separation from Maeve and if it was a right or a wrong decision to have a baby.

XXXX

No confidences were shared when Shelagh went to say goodbye to Patrick before leaving. He was oddly off-key and distracted.

"Shelagh, I could drive you to the school tomorrow. "

"No need, Doc, it is easier to get there by tube."

"Do you have anything else that you - need? Books? Articles? You are always welcome to use my handbooks here in my office."

"No, Patrick, I think the nursing school library will be quite sufficient."

There was an awkward handshake and a wan smile. He was brushing his hair back like he was nervous. She really loved his lopsided mane.

XXXX

In the next months, Shelagh was enjoying herself with her studies. She was finding her true vocation with babies and mothers.

She was emailing sporadically with the Illyria Clinic people. She also had a fairly intensive email contact with Timothy, who was thinking of his life choices as well. Shelagh was encouraging him to continue medical studies, although she tried to sound not too bossy.

From Tim, she also heard snippets of his father. Patrick didn't write to her much. To be honest, neither did she to him. She hoped the distance would help her to see through this…thing.

She had received some emails from him, in one of which he seemed a bit edgy:

 _"Dear Shelagh._

 _I have heard your news from Trixie and Phyllis, good for me. It seems your studies are going well. I also saw the picture of you sent to Timothy. It is amazing what you can do with emails. I think he said it was sent as something called an attachment?_

 _We are fine here at the Clinic, although I must say that Miss Aldrin, your stand-in, is not the teacher you are (with the computer)._

 _All the best,_

 _Patrick._

 _P.S. You looked fine in that picture. You wear scarves nowadays?"_

It was good that the father and the son were in regular contact. Shelagh felt a sense of completion in that, she had been useful in some ways.

Another mail from Patrick was very short. _"How's your smoking strike going? I miss our biscuit breaks. Patrick."_

XXX

In August, she got a call from Meg Carter. Her labour had started, she was on her way to the hospital. Shelagh set to leave right away to the Illyria Clinic. Traffic was slow, so she had no time to greet anyone at the Clinic. She hurried straight away to the anteroom of the Delivery Unit. She dressed in protective garments and entered the Delivery Room.

"Shelagh!"

Three pairs of eyes met her. Meg was relieved and stretched out for her hand. Trixie smiled behind her mouth-cover and said "Good to see you, Shelagh." Patrick smiled, too, and said in a very merry voice: "Hello, nurse!"

"Oh no, I am not yet a nurse. Good to be here." Shelagh turned to Meg.

Patrick became focused on the business of birth again. "Things are going as expected, Shelagh. Just the way I like it."

XXXXX

The baby was almost born. A phone started to ring in the room. "You take it Shelagh," Trixie said, moving to take Meg's hand.

An anxious voice of Mrs. Monica was at the other end of line. "I am speaking from the inner office, Shelagh. There is someone called Maeve Wells down here at the reception. She is rather wild and says that her partner Meg Carter is giving birth here at the moment, and that she wants to be there. In the Delivery Room. I have explained to her that as she's not registered as anyone's closest relation, she can't be admitted to the ward, and anyway, I can't even give her any news. I didn't even confirm that Meg Carter is here. Should I call the security? She seems so upset. I checked that there is indeed a Meg Carter giving birth today, you are there as her doula, aren't you?"

Shelagh puffed. "Monica, don't call the security. I will come and talk with her after the baby is born. Say to her something, like that we are now checking the situation, but it will take time, and that you have to consult people…give her hope, but not too much hope."

"OK, I will do that. I thought that the constellation of Venus and Mars might make things a bit chaotic today..."

Shelagh put the phone down. She went back to Meg. Trixie was encouraging her. "You are doing very well, Meg. One push…."

A baby was born, a girl, but she didn't cry. Trixie was rubbing her back. Finally, the baby cried, loud and hungry for life. Meg broke into tears. "Let me see her."

The baby was placed for some seconds on her mother's bosom. Then Patrick gently took the baby away. "I am sorry, Ms. Carter, the baby needs some extra checking, as she is a bit cold. Trixie, could you put her some moments to the incubator. It isn't for long, I assure you. It seems Shelagh has something to say to you."

Shelagh sat by Meg's side. "Meg, it seems that Maeve is at the reception right now. She wants to see you and the baby. Is it all right for her to come up?"

She glanced at Patrick as this was not strictly the accepted procedure. Patrick nodded, with a little smile.

Meg was glad and teary. "Is she really here? Of course she can come to see…us."

Shelagh went down to the reception area to fetch Maeve. Maeve was given an apron and a cap and they led her to the delivery room where the young Ms. Carter was back in her mother's arms.

XXXX

"Well, that was comforting to see. A reunion," Patrick said to Shelagh in the anteroom.

"Yes. The separation of lovers is a terrible thing," Shelagh said.

He looked at her like he was about to say something…

Then Shelagh took the protetcive cap away and shook her hair and patted it to its shape. It was a cloud of corn-coloured silk, with some soft curls in the end.

Patrick was speechless.

"What, Patrick? Something the matter?" Shelagh inquired not entirely without guile.

"What have you done with your hair?" he gasped.

"Nothing much. I let it grow, and stopped colouring it black. Well, I might have gone to the hairdressers to get a shade of - cream-and-honey." She giggled a little. Now that the difficult moment of revelation was over, she was relaxed. "Do you know what this moment calls for? A cigarette."

Patrick grinned. "What a wonderful dirty little thought. Luckily, I have a pack here somewhere. Let's go to the kitchen of this floor."

"Oh dear, you haven't fallen off the wagon when I was away?"

"Not so much, I may have had two cigarettes while you were away. During the last five months and sixteen days. I may have become a secret cake eater with Mrs. Monica. See this little pot belly?" He was babbling and she loved his babbling.

They took away the protective garments and went to the kitchen.

He found a pack of cigarettes. "Let's consume just one cigarette together. Open that window. We have to keep the smoke out of this room."

He lit a cigarette and they leaned out of the window, sharing the precious one, taking puffs of it. Their fingers touched each other when they exchanged it.

"So, you haven't fallen off the wagon on your study leave?" Patrick inquired.

"No, not really."

"Well, men are the weaker sex. " _'For boy, our fancies more giddy and unfirm are than women's.'_ "

Shelagh raised her brow. "Boy?"

Patrick gave her an appreciative look. "Your _women's weeds_ are rather nice. Blue suits you. It suits that new colour of your hair." His gaze was longing and keen.

"Have you heard of Timothy lately?" Shelagh made a quick diversion.

"Oh yes, he's coming here tomorrow. For the Feast of Fools charity event, and he has a Doctor Who gig here in London next week, so he will stay for a while. Guess what, great news. He has decided to continue medical studies in January."

"That is good. I rather suspected he might," Shelagh demurely said. "I have been writing with Timothy quite a lot. He helped me to pass the exam in obstetrics."

"You could have asked me for help. You wrote so few emails to me when you were away. "

She liked the pining in his voice.

"And I still have pretty good knowledge of obstetrics, wouldn't you say, based on the experience you had today? I used to be a good coach of exams. I could produce fairly good testimonials. Girls really liked me as a teacher."

"You are fishing for compliments. " _'I was adored once'_ " Shelagh recited dramatically.

The _Twelfth Night_ quote touched some deep nerve in them. They became helpless with laughter.

"I might have been. Who can say… I wasn't," he stuttered, drying his eyes.

Then he turned serious. "Tim says a friend of his is coming too. Someone called Delia Busby. She is the new flat mate. I wonder if there is something going on between him and that Delia. Do you have any idea?"

"Yes, Patrick, I have a pretty good idea. There is nothing going on between them. I think Delia helps him with the Events, for money."

Patrick raised his upper lip. "Well, it is good someone has a clear idea of what is going on in my family. "

After a while he continued: "I should stop smoking. You should stop smoking. Even an odd cigarette once a week is a lethal weapon. Tim calls them coffin nails."

"Oh?"

"He does. He warned me that if I would like to see my grandchildren I should not only stop smoking but skip biscuits and cake, too. But if there is not anything going on between Delia and him, it is perhaps premature to hope for grandchildren."

"Perhaps it is. But I hope we will see our grandchildren…" Shelagh realized her blunder and blushed. "I mean I'd like to see my grandchildren, too."

It was too late. He was tuned to detect undertones in everything she said. His smile was a mixture of delight and wickedness. "Yes. That would be a nice thing to see." Then he stubbed out the cigarette, "Let that be the last one. Come one Mannion, one high-five, for the old times sake."

He raised his hand. Shelagh did the same and they clapped. But after the clap he caught her hand in a tight grip. Their fingers were intermingled. He kept the hold and moved closer with shining eyes. Their wrists were against one another and Shelagh could feel his heightened pulse.

Then his pager started to beep. "Oh damn!" he swore from the bottom of his heart and let her hand go. He checked the pager and turned to her. "I have to go. An emergency caesarian awaits."

He left but came hastily back from the corridor and leaned to the door frame. "Will you be here tomorrow?" Shelagh nodded. "Will you come to the Feast of Fools Dance?" he entreated.

"Yes, I will come to the dance."

"Will you come there with me?"

"Ermm….yes."

"Good. See you there."

He left. Shelagh heard him running down the staircase.

"Is this a date?" she wondered. "I have a date with Patrick. Odd."

She burst into sobs, mixed with laughter. She had to sit down.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter10. I thank my stars I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered**

"Ah, my date. The enchanting Miss Mannion." Patrick's eyes flashed.

Shelagh had to take a two. First, she was Patrick's date. There was no mistake in that. His manner was all you could hope for a date, he was polite, tender and simply enchanted. But what a date he was, on this day, of all days in the year. She had anticipated this, for she knew the nature of the Feast of Fools event. But his costume-

"What a beautiful frock you have. What do you think of me, Shelagh? Will I do?" Patrick asked.

The Feast of Fools charity event at Illyria was not an event managed by Timothy Turner, but an annual fundraising event where the Senior Doctors made fool of themselves in order to raise money for the Illyria Foundation. It took place in the large inner yard of the hospital. There were square dances you had to pay for to participate in.

But there was also a Vote-For-the-Funniest-Costume competition. The doctors dressed as astronauts, gorillas, clowns, whatever, and the public could vote for the best costume. A vote cost 3£, and some of the rich donors were invited to pay for double the money for what the three prize winners got in votes. The donors' prize was to get to dance one celebratory square dance with these masked Senior Doctors, and to get placed by them at a celebratory black-tie dinner in the evening. It was a hilarious event, and produced good money. It kept the community spirit of Illyria strong.

Shelagh burst out cackling at his costume. Patrick had rather overdone it. He wore 1950s Boy Scout wide khaki shorts. He had a similarly large black leather jacket, full of metal. Underneath he wore an orange shirt and a most awful bootlace-tie. The highlight of it was his hair. An elaborate Mohawk coiffure graced his head. His black hair stood up there like it had been glued at his skull. It seemed there were even some hair extensions in it.

Shelagh wailed. "Patrick, your hair. It is ghastly."

"It is rather appalling. So appalling it borders on fantastic. Trixie helped me. I didn't know there are so many hair products in the world. Don't you like it, my Goth? Rather rich coming from you that criticism."

Shelagh hid her face against his chest. "I can't say anything to that,"she sighed, breathless. His hand touched her hair. Shelagh became aware of their surroundings and retreated back.

"I borrowed the leather jacket from Timothy," Patrick prattled on, a little flustered. "I also borrowed from him these old ski stockings." He showed the bright yellow stockings pulled up to his thighs and tied with brown garters. To crown the craziness, he wore Dad sandals that looked like they were from the 1950s, too. "Shelagh, you know that I can be pretty competitive with fundraising. Who wouldn't be a fool for a day, if you get a hundred days' funding to our kangaroo care research project?"

"No, indeed, Patrick, who wouldn't?" Shelagh agreed with merry resignation.

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "Now, Shelagh, any room in your dance card for a pretty well-dressed Doctor, eh? I should prance and strut a little more in this costume to get votes, and what a better way to achieve notoriety than dance with the most beautiful girl in the party?"

Shelagh's heart was swelling in her breast. She took his arm. "By all means. All the fun for the good cause."

xxxxx

"And the winner of the best costume is…the most imposing….and the most ridiculous…..Doctor Patrick Turner!" The MC announced the results, and Patrick went to the platform to receive the applause.

When he came down, he didn't see Shelagh anywhere, but his eyes caught the grinning Timothy, giving his Dad a big hand. A dark girl in a pretty polka-dot dress stood beside him, laughing.

Patrick went to give him a hug.

"Oh Dad, when I have been saying you should loosen a little, I meant a little. I didn't mean a total wack job," he teased.

"I was already scolded by Shelagh, now by another original dresser. It was pretty rich coming from Shelagh, and now from you, a guy who organizes cosplays and wears black all the time."

"Touché, Dad," Tim agreed. She introduced the lady: "This is Delia Busby, Patsy's girlfriend, by the way. Delia, meet my Dad. A bonkers dresser, but a frightfully decent old chap."

"Nice to meet you, Delia," Patrick greeted her."Have you seen Patsy? She was here a minute ago. She nearly beat me in the costume competition with her checked shirt and a cowboy hat."

A happy shriek was heard. "Deeelia!" Patsy was running towards her, clearly seeing no-one else. They embraced each other. Then Patsy came to the present with a little start. She noticed Timothy: "You must be Tim. I have heard so much of you. Nice to meet at last."

"Likewise, Patsy. Nice to meet you. "

"So Patsy, _in this wreck will you have a most happy share_?" Patrick winked at Patsy, his eyes twinkling.

Patsy flashed a smile. "I am happy to lose to you, Mr. Scalp. I got Mr. Winter as my dinner partner, you got Mrs. Tucker for the evening. The money is rolling, though. Anything for kangaroo care."

Patsy turned serious. "Tim, I am so glad you have been there for Delia."

Tim was a bit embarrassed at the praise. "Stop it, Patsy. I am just a mate as any other."

"A true and a fair mate."

"Talking of true and fair mates, where is Shelagh? You said you have seen her, didn't you, Dad?" inquired Tim.

"Yes, son. Seen her, danced with her, offered her a drink." Patrick's voice betrayed a giddy delight. "May I now offer you ladies a drink? Tim, go and seek for Shelagh and bring her to the bar."

Patrick, Delia and Patsy walked towards the bar desk, chatting in a lively manner.

XXX

Tim found Shelagh sitting with Phyllis in the shade of trees. He gave her a hug.

"So Shelagh, tell me the news. How's things? How's Dad, I mean, in addition to being the crazy, competitive Scout?"

Shelagh snorted. "He's all right. He may have had some things on his mind, but I think he has reached some conclusions." She felt a bit nervous, talking with Tim. No great revelations, though, not yet. A precarious kind of happiness seemed to lurk and beckon her around the corner. Tim would be happy for them, she was pretty sure of that.

"Good. That is as it should be. It's nice to be home. It used to be like walking on a ground on which broken glass was spread. Now it is so much more pleasant here." He looked at Shelagh under his brow. "I think it is due to you that things are better. You really are a bro. Shelagh. A true bro."

Shelagh was touched. "Thank you, Tim. That is so kind. But so many people have helped me. Like Phyllis here.".

Phyllis considered her and Tim with pleasure. "A fine pair you make, you once twin Goths. So you thought it is time to drop some of your masks?" Tim and Shelagh laughed at that.

"Oh no, Phyllis, I have only let Dad borrow my leather jacket," Tim insisted.

"Doesn't Shelagh look good in wide skirts, young master Turner?" Phyllis pleaded.

"Yes she does. She is drop dead gorgeous."

They spent a moment admiring her. Then they heard a voice behind them. "Yes, she is the grandest Goth there ever was," Patrick beamed. "A butterfly has been born out of the shell. Come, dance with me once more, Shelagh." He took Shelagh away to a new square dance.

Tim and Phyllis were left looking after them. "Phyllis. Do you think it likely….?" He stopped and turned to Phyllis with a questioning look and a wry smile.

Nurse Crane narrowed her eyes to an appraising gaze and let her lips tighten a bit. Then she smiled, too. "Yes, son. I think it is likely that biscuits and nicotine gums are not enough for them. They need other food for love, so to say."

XXX

The dance had left them breathless. Patrick and Shelagh had to take a seat for a while and have a drink.

He looked at her sipping the juice. "What are you thinking of?" he asked tentatively, yet giving her such an intimate glance that Shelagh got gooseflesh.

"Well, the new roster for midwives, and the history of autoclaves," she deadpanned.

"Well…." Patrick was taken aback. "Oh, you are teasing me, aren't you?" he complained.

Then she asked, with a seductive bounce of shoulders and a wide smile: "What are you thinking of?"

He cleared his throat and put his glass down. "I think we indeed need the privacy which looking at that damned autoclave could give us." He rose and offered his hand. "Come with me. Up to the museum room."

Once inside the Museum room, he pushed her against the door and put his hand on her cheek. They watched each other with glowing faces. Then he pulled her close to him and leaned in to kiss her. After some sweet moments, they burst into giggles.

"What a…wreck. What a…catastrophe," he cried.

"No, Patrick, do not call this an accident. If it is, it is an accident made in heaven. A most happy shipwreck."

He backed a little further and made her swing around, her skirts flying high. "Oh, your dress. I love it. I love you."

Now it was her turn to push him against the door in a decisive manner. "What now, Shelagh?" he chuckled.

"I am going to do something I've ached to do for months."

"What is that, oh mighty one?"

Shelagh grabbed his hair and pulled down his high Mohawk. She let her fingers unbind the dark curls full of hair mousse and gel. Her hands were determined, but her touch was gentle. She also pulled the hair extensions out.

"Oh, Shelagh," he groaned a little. Finally, she stopped, her hands deliciously on his neck.

"There now. Don't you ever go near any hair products again, without my permission. I am a bit of an expert, you know, and I love your dark, floppy hair."

"OK. I bow to my mistress. My grand Goth."

He gathered her into his arms again and searched for her lips. All the hurt was gone in the sweetness of this embrace. Overflowing joy was filling Shelagh's body and mind. It was good to feel Patrick, his body, his eager hands, his lean craggy face against hers. He fondled her waist and her hips in a tantalizingly slow manner. There was passion and tenderness in his ministrations and Shelagh reveled in that. Yet she managed to whisper him some caressing words.

"Oh, you are _all as hungry as the sea._ Not enough biscuits in the world?"

"No,", he growled in a heated voice. "But how lovely I can digest…. you. _My fancy's queen_."

"Now Patrick, about those…grandchildren."

He let out a small muffled cry. "You will be my wife and my life. And you still mock me and my need of grandchildren? Will you help me get them, in due order, children first?"

" _Let still the woman take an elder than herself: so wears she to him_ ," she muttered.

"That is so nice of you. Darling Shelagh, will you marry me? I love you more than I can say."

"Yes, you chump. My old chump. "

XXXX

After a while they took refuge on the old sofa at the Museum room. It was strictly speaking forbidden to sit on that precious antique piece of mahogany and velvet, but it was a kind of emergency, wasn't it? Shelagh let her head rest on his chest.

"Patrick, can I ask you something?"

"Yes?"

"Will you miss Shelagh The Goth? The uncomplicated pal?"

"The calm, even, trustworthy companion," he said in a low voice, caressing her forehead and stroking the golden hair away with his fingers. "I could miss her a tiny bit. No. Not really. "

"Why not?"

"Because I have you. The Goth is here in you. I see the shades of you. I think we don't need Gothism anymore. Neither of us does."

Then he whispered to her seductively: "But it would be fun, if you saved some black leather. For special occasions. And lace. Please, give me some black lace."

"Patrick!" She mock-punched him playfully.

"Shelagh, do you not think it is a bit early to start a domestic? Ouch. That really hurt. If you punch me once again…."

"What, Patrick?"

"I will treat you as your Master's Mistress." The words were chauvinist but the tone was humble and tender.

"I still haven't called you Master."

"Well, that is something to look forward to."

"In your dreams. In your dreams, man."


End file.
